Vignette 8: Sunburn
by Loafer
Summary: Pre-Lassiet. Partners would do anything for each other, and that includes getting revenge. Again, this is pre-Lassiet.


**Disclaimer** : who let the dogs out?

 **Rating** : T

 **Summary** : Partners would do anything for each other, and that includes getting revenge. Pre-Lassiet. For classchic1, but this isn't _exactly_ what she asked for.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

The sunny one. That's what they called her as she grew up, as she went through her school years; even in the police academy in Miami, she was the sunny one.

It was entirely appropriate that when she finally got her Santa Barbara assignment, she was partnered with the grumpiest man on earth. Whether she would soften him or he would extinguish her sunniness with his ire, time would tell.

But after five years, time wasn't telling much. She was still sunny, and he was still grumpy, but when they were alone, she could see her general good cheer had been wearing him down.

He smiled a lot more when it was just the two of them.

The moment anyone else came into view, the smile would become guarded or would drop altogether, particularly if it was Shawn Spencer, but when they were alone...

She was falling for him. It was slow, because he was so very determined not to be liked, but she couldn't help but like him anyway. He was smart and snarky and tough and much too attractive, and she sometimes couldn't meet his terribly-blue gaze for long out of fear she'd fall in and get lost.

Not that this would be a bad thing. No. Lost in that particular blue ocean? All good.

But they were partners, yadda yadda.

Stupid common sense.

She dated; she even flirted with Shawn and toyed with taking it further, but Shawn, despite his skills and good heart—hidden behind multitudinous layers of his own brand of snarkery and deflection and narcissism—wasn't the kind of guy she could seriously see herself with. He lived too much on the surface and valued hard work and honesty far too little.

She loved both work and honesty.

So did Carlton.

She dreamed of ways to get past the common sense. Sometimes she was sure he looked at her the same way she tried not to get caught looking at him, but if anyone was going to be bound by the rules, it was him. Always.

 _You heard he was involved with his last partner..._

Yes. She'd heard that. She was pretty sure it was true. And as a detective, she'd done the research—put together the back story to determine motive—and she knew without a doubt that he'd been under incredible stress then, and people under huge amounts of stress sometimes did things they'd never do at any other time.

She couldn't guess at his _feelings_ for his former partner. No one but Carlton knew that. But she knew they had no contact now unless he hid it from her, and he didn't lie well.

He could _evade_ like nobody's business. He could shut down a line of inquiry with a glacial blue glare. But when _words_ were involved, he sucked at lying—which was good—so she was certain that part of his life was over and done, R.I.P.

The official department regulations didn't actually forbid partners from getting involved. It just _strongly advised_ that they not get involved.

But the day Chuck Hall nearly killed Carlton during a "routine" arrest, Juliet metaphorically set that book of regulations on fire.

Because you can't be _sunny_ ... without also being white hot heat.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

She clasped his lean warm hand and leaned in to kiss his forehead. His eyes were closed and he was breathing fairly evenly for someone with four broken ribs.

His left arm was also broken, his face was a mass of bruises, and there was a stab wound in his thigh from which he'd nearly bled out.

He was stable now, mostly sedated.

Juliet cataloged his injuries, forcing herself to stay calm. She wanted to remember exactly how he'd been injured before she went after Chuck Hall.

And she was definitely going after Chuck Hall.

Carlton stirred, his fingers twitching in her grasp. She kissed his forehead again and he sighed, settling back into his sedated state, relaxing.

"I'll take care of you, partner," she whispered against his temple.

Right after she _took care_ of Chuck.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

She knew how to make herself small.

Lose the heels, check. Dark clothing, tight-fitting: no chance of tearing or pulling.

Or obvious bloodstains.

She was tougher than most people knew—although Carlton knew—because they judged her as being a lightweight.

Pretty.

 _Sunny_.

Long before she came to Santa Barbara she was in the habit of doing whatever necessary to keep herself in shape: she was no Lara Croft, but she was absolutely certain she could handle herself in a fight.

Particularly when no one knew she was coming.

And when she had no intention of playing fair.

Dressed in black, hair braided and tied back, ball cap.

A sock full of nickels—no fingerprints.

And of course, rage.

She smiled.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Chuck Hall had escaped arrest with the help of a friend with a fast car, and he'd stayed hidden in the few days since.

Juliet knew where he was.

She had an informant who no longer thought she was sunny in a _good_ way, and now she knew where Chuckie-baby was hiding out.

Borrowed ramshackle cabin in the woods. Alone. No dog to warn him she was on the prowl.

Her brother Ewan had taught her to pick locks, and she was very good at it, a secret she'd kept from everyone but Carlton.

She moved in the darkness of the cabin, sussing out the location of the bedroom and determining her target was asleep and snoring.

He stopped snoring when she straddled him and covered his mouth with one gloved hand.

The noises he made after that indicated he was completely awake but not enjoying her company.

She didn't kill him.

But she methodically matched every injury he'd inflicted upon Carlton.

Somehow she did it without making a sound—outwardly.

In her _head_ the shouting was continuous.

 _You nearly took him from me._

 _I will nearly take you from YOU._

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

By dawn she was back home. She'd cleaned up, destroyed the clothes and everything else she'd carried with her.

She'd used a burn phone to text 911 to save the bastard's worthless life, and then destroyed the phone too.

Then, showered and ready for the new day, she went to the hospital to once again clasp Carlton's hand and kiss his face.

He woke this time, disoriented but focusing quickly on her.

A smile lit his blue eyes and she couldn't help but smile back. He was glorious in his way, even beaten to a pulp.

"Hey," he croaked.

"Hey, partner. You feeling any less terrible?"

"Yeah... sort of." He squeezed her hand. "What time is it?"

"Early. I had to stop in before work. Had to get my Carlton fix."

"And to give me my Juliet fix," he said, and then looked surprised at the admission.

Juliet laughed. She had him now, thank God. "I'll do whatever it takes to get you better as fast as possible."

Again he smiled, not even resisting, and still holding her hand. "You're already doing it by being here."

"I'm amazing," she suggested, and he nodded.

"You are. I should tell you more often."

"You should."

He was grinning as an orderly brought in his breakfast, and after the bed was raised and the tray set up, he started in on the eggs and bacon before him, managing well enough despite his rib cage pain and broken arm.

She chatted with him—as much as he was amenable to "chatting"—and when he asked if they'd caught Chuck Hall yet, she said without a flicker of guilt, "No, he's still lying low."

 _Low_ had many definitions. Low on an ambulance gurney, for one...

He scowled, and she stroked his arm.

"I want a piece of him, you know."

"Oh, I know." Juliet smiled. "He'll turn up. Once you get out of here I'll be searching for him personally."

 _Should be easy. He might be just down the hall._

"Personally with _me_ ," he amended sternly.

"Of course. But that's not the _first_ thing I'll be doing _personally_ with you."

Carlton dropped a piece of toast as he stared at her, and Juliet put everything she had—everything she _felt_ —into how she looked back at him.

"Juliet," he warned, but his tone was uneven.

She gave him her sunniest smile. The good kind. "Not _O'Hara_?"

The shades of blue were myriad, and yet steady.

After a long time, he held out his hand and she took it, feeling hope welling up inside.

"Not anymore," he murmured. "But go easy on me. I'm skittish."

"I know." She leaned over the bed rail to kiss his temple, hearing him sigh. "I can take my time."

"Not too much time," he amended with a cautious smile. "I'm also a lot older than you."

"I'll have your pacemaker serviced regularly," she promised.

He smiled—which further lit those blue, blue eyes—and she kissed his face again.

In the wee hours of the morning, she'd nearly killed a man in a cold, controlled, furious rage.

And shortly after dawn, she'd _won_ a man.

The best man.

She could be _sunny_ about that for the rest of her life.

 **. . . . .**

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 **E N D**


End file.
